[b]Hattieville, British Belize[/b]
[i]August, 1955[/i]

	Two days came and went with the Mexicans staying dug in to their improvised position around the town of Hattieville. Captain Lopez had called up to battalion after the British counterattack, requesting to move to a far more defensible position of an old colonial prison just around two kilometers to the north. His request was turned down: the paratroopers needed to maintain their current positions and wait for the mechanized brigade to catch up on the second front. There were only a smattering of British probing attacks and a reconnaissance flight from a faraway aircraft that was unreachable by the company’s light .30 caliber machine guns. Curiously, it appeared to be a rickety old Great War biplane. The RAF did not send their best to Belize.

	The civilians in town mostly stayed wary of the Mexicans, neither approaching them with kindness nor outright hostility. Lopez tried to talk to someone, ask who the mayor or local leader was, but the civilian just pursed his lips and carried on to the fields nearby. His soldiers let the man pass, as they were under strict orders not to interfere with the locals unless there was an active threat. Sweeps of unoccupied buildings did not reveal any sort of weapons caches or military supplies. It was almost like, sans the British colonial police who had all been captured without a fight, the British didn’t pay attention to Hattieville.

	Lopez finished eating a meal out of his rations. He was still unsure how they managed to maintain semi-edible barbacoa in a can, although the preservative liquid inside tasted somewhat artificial. The tortillas were passable, and the salsa verde was the best part. He was fairly certain that it was the same brand of canned salsa that he could find at a grocery store with the military’s bland label slapped on the side of the tin. In any case, it was fine enough after a week in the field. The fatty goat meat was good for providing all the energy that he needed to maneuver.

	It was the first meal that had been delivered by truck, too. The [i] Brigada de Fusileros Paracaidistas[/i]’s support battalion flew in earlier in the week to Belize on specialized gliders. Airborne resupply operations were difficult, as most of the troops were light infantry on foot. Vehicles like the supply companies’ trucks needed to be landed in big open fields by skilled glider pilots. While he was an infantryman by trade, Lopez could only imagine the maintenance problems that came with slamming regular vehicles into the ground. Those that didn’t need too much love and care after impact were loaded up with paradropped supplies and sent forward.

	Captain Lopez finished off the food before cleaning off his mess kit with a splash of water from his canteen. He left it atop his rucksack to dry out and stood, stretching his sore legs. His uniform was dirty, smelled of sweat, and was getting stiff and crusty from not being washed for so long. He had a change of clothes in his rucksack somewhere and thought about washing it out if they stayed in place for another few more days. Reyes was nearby, playing a card game with a friend of his while listening to the radio’s empty static fill the command post. Its antenna swayed in the breeze lazily.

	“Hey Muñoz,” he said to his executive officer. The Lieutenant was napping underneath the shade of his camouflaged poncho strung up against the building for impromptu shelter. Muñoz didn’t budge, his helmet slumped over his eyes.

	“Muñoz!” Lopez said, a little bit louder and sterner. The XO jolted awake, one hand going for his nearby carbine in a split second reaction. He looked over at the commander and asked what was going on.

	“Nothing,” said Lopez. “Just stay here and watch the radio while I go talk to First Sergeant.”

	“Got it, sir,” Muñoz replied. He ducked out from his poncho shelter and straightened out his uniform before grabbing his weapon and heading over to where Reyes had just cleaned out his opponent of the candy that they were gambling. He left his helmet and web gear alongside his own ruck and wordlessly watched the two enlisted radiomen bicker over the card game.

	First Sergeant Kan was working with the company’s supply clerk, a short and peppy young [i]Especialista[/i] from the same city as Lopez. He talked with a rapid accent, even for most of the troops, as he counted the remaining parcels of rations and water cans before doing math on remaining days of supply for the company’s men. The medic was sitting nearby in his aid station, smoking a cigarette. It was empty now, but the evidence of previous casualties remained. Dark blood in the dirt underneath the shade of his own poncho tent construction was still visible beneath where stretchers had been. All the casualties were taken back to the battalion surgeon on the same truck that delivered the food.

	Captain Lopez walked past them, greeting the group before continuing on to the makeshift prisoner stockade. It was rather disinterestedly guarded by a pair of operations soldiers from headquarters. The British inside, now in varying states of loose undress to cope with the heat, were sitting aimlessly inside. They looked more bored than anything else.

[b]Havana, Cuba[/b]
[i]August, 1955[/i]

	Enrique Valdés pored over the maps of Haiti and the Dominican Republic, adorned with military symbols. Red diamonds represented the “enemy” forces, although Mexico was not at war with them. Haitian and Dominican security forces engaged in contact with the [i]Guarda Costa[/i]. They were green squares, not necessarily the blue rectangles that represented friendly forces. Nobody in DIPS wanted to designate them as “friendly” just yet. The units fought a bitter war in the jungle, or at least the iconography claimed: Enrique had never served in the military, nor learned its complex pictorial language of tactics.

	“Green means good guys, right?” he asked to Carlos, who was reviewing some paperwork nearby. The veteran operative had his feet kicked up on his desk as he perused through photographs of people more important than Enrique could hope to deal with. Carlos almost seemed to scowl at him.

	“Are you a fucking idiot?” he chastised. Carlos shook his head. “Didn’t even go through boot camp, didn’t listen to some [i]teniente[/i] giving a hare-brained order? Green is ‘partner forces’, or ‘allies’, asshole.”

	“Sorry!” Enrique exclaimed suddenly. His heart sank into his chest.

	“Fuckin’ momma’s boy. Rich family motherfucker,” Carlos continued. “Ever get dirt under your fingers? Now’s the chance. Focus on [i]Unidad.[/i]”

	Enrique slowed down to examine the finer points of the map ahead of him. The rebels trying to claim a “Hispaniola” were experts in guerrilla tactics, advancing the forward-line-of-troops with lightning speed as they overwhelmed the Dominican forces. They were too used to police actions, internal defense, and other light actions: many officers were fat and lazy and didn’t produce a significant challenge to the rebels.

	“You’re right,” he said, tracing his finger along a Hispaniolan advance through a forested valley. “These fuckers do know how to fight.”

	“It’s all those Americans they have,” Carlos answered coolly. “They can fight. Enough of them want to play soldier in the Caribbean that [i]Unidad[/i] has some dedicated assholes.”

	Enrique kept examining the map. “They could use help here,” he said abruptly. He pointed his hand at the map. Carlos leaned up from his seat and squinted at Enrique.

	“What the fuck do you mean, they could use help? These assholes are fine to go conquer their ‘Hispaniola’, we give them some free sugar later. That’s the plan.”
	“No, I mean,” Enrique said as he traced the map. There was one highway leading to Santo Domingo, and [i]Guarda Costa[/i] forces were approaching it. The village of San Francisco de Macoris was out of sight for most maps, but the iconography was clear to Enrique: fuel depots, staging points, and hardened defensive structures. Whatever the Dominicans had done to the town, the Hispaniolans wanted. He traced his fingers down the main highway. “They’re moving on a strategic village. It’s sixty miles from the capital. There are no spots for the government to stop them.”

	Carlos stood up, putting his newspaper to the side. “Jesus,” he muttered. “They’re on the move. If they win this battle, it’s no more than a week til they get to the capital.”

	“I know,” Enrique replied, pointing out the route to Carlos. “These fuckers work quick.”

	“Fucking Christ,” Carlos said as he studied the map. “I’m going to call the embassy. We need these assholes back, and now.”

	“Why?”

	“We aren’t supposed to analyze them!” Carlos said, frustrated. “We’re making them allies of Mexico! Get them ready… butter them up… make sure they know we’re behind a push to Santo Domingo… The more they suck our dick, the better. I’m going to call the embassy.”

	Carlos put his things to the side and sat up from his chair. As he stormed out of the small office, Enrique examined the map even more. A macro-scale map was to his left, which showed the ever-updating positions of Mexican strategic forces on a scale map of the Caribbean. Army and Navy forces were moving around, tangling with the British on their islands which were now marked in a red overlay. Their island chain, to the east of the strategic “Hispaniola” target, was clearly the goal of Mexico’s fleet in the region. Many islands, strategically useful and not, laid in wait for the invading Mexican force.

	While they got daily forces navigation updates from the embassy, when they changed their push-pins, Enrique didn’t know the full extent of the war. All signs pushed to recruiting the Hispaniolans as a “government”, for which to oppose both the British and Americans. Somewhere inside Enrique, he felt relieved: school had always taught him about the colonial injustices of European powers. Now they were able to drive them out of the continent. He looked again at the fleets and forces arranged on his strategic board in stern approval, the markings above each abstract square designating the sheer amount of Mexican forces dedicated to the task. Enrique Valdés smiled in approval, and went back to his map of Hispaniola.